Chapter 2: The Garage Confession
Kenzie’s fingers still hummed with the memory of engine vibration two days later. She’d botched her guild’s nightly raid, twice, which prompted a concerned voice call from her tank, Marcus. “Kenz, you’re healing like you’re reading a shampoo bottle. You alive in there?” She’d mumbled an excuse about a design deadline. It wasn’t a complete lie. Her tablet was filled with abandoned sketches—a fender, a grip, a shoulder in a leather jacket. She’d delete them, a sharp swipe of her finger, only to find her stylus drifting back to similar lines minutes later.
Her phone buzzed on her textbook, screen facedown. She flipped it over.
Unknown Number: hey. it’s leo. from the coffee disaster and the subsequent pedestrian incident. got your digits from sarah in graphic design 202. hope that’s not creepy.
A flutter, sharp and sudden, hit her stomach. Sarah was her lab partner. It was a logical, low-stakes inquiry. Not creepy. Efficient.
Kenzie: Only a little creepy. But I’ve seen your coordination. Stalking probably requires more finesse.
Leo: Ouch. Fair. So. I’m at the garage today. The bike’s in pieces. Again. If you wanted to see the guts of the thing without the risk of a moving violation.
She stared at the message. The safe thing, the Kenzie-thing, was to plead homework. The guild needed her. She had a million assets to render. She typed a single word.
Kenzie: Address.
The garage was a detached, single-story building tucked behind a row of auto-body shops on the industrial fringe of campus. Leo was waiting outside, leaning against the faded brick, wiping his hands on a rag already black with grime. He smiled when he saw her approach, that easy grin, but she saw the slight tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes tracked her like he was checking for a flinch.
“You found it.”
“GPS is a hell of a thing,” she said, stopping a few feet away. The air here smelled different—hot asphalt, gasoline, crushed weeds. “So this is the lair.”
“This is it. C’mon. Mind the step.”
He pushed the heavy side door open. The noise hit her first—a classic rock song fighting with the shriek of an air impact wrench from a bay down the way. Then the smell: pungent, layered motor oil, fresh rubber, the sweet-acrid scent of welding fumes. Light streamed in from high, grimy windows, cutting through dust motes that swirled like lazy galaxies.
His space was in the back corner. The café racer was up on a lift stand, its fuel tank and seat removed, exposing its intricate skeleton. Parts were laid out on a faded blue tarp with a military-like precision: cylinders, carburetors, a chain like a segmented metal snake. A workbench groaned under toolboxes, their drawers labeled in meticulous block letters. It was organized chaos.
“It’s… dismantled,” she said, her designer’s eye taking in the composition of it all—the elegant curves of the frame against the gritty concrete, the scattered parts like abstract shapes.
“Preventative maintenance. Found a hairline crack in a mount last week. Figured I’d go through it all.” He walked over, circling the bike. “This is the Rev-4 you clocked.” He patted the engine block. “And this,” he said, pointing to a complex assembly of pipes and fins, “is the new exhaust I’m fitting. The welds are… okay.”
She stepped closer, drawn in. The metal was warm to the touch. She could see the fine, bead-like line of the weld he’d done, the subtle discoloration from the heat. “It’s not just okay. It’s clean. You kept the heat zone tight.” She glanced at him. “My dad would’ve approved.”
Something in his face softened, the performative layer of charm peeling back. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She picked up a small, heavy cylinder from the tarp. A piston. It was satin-smooth, crowned with carbon scoring. “This is beautiful.”
“Most people see a dirty hunk of metal.”
“Most people aren’t looking.”
He was silent for a beat. The air wrench in the distant bay stopped, leaving only the distant radio. “You want to see the problem child?” He gestured to a shape in the shadows, covered by a sheet. He pulled the cloth away with a theatrical flourish.
Underneath was a motorcycle that was all menace and angles, a brutish naked bike with a twisted fork and a shattered headlight. “My current project. A 1980s UJM someone threw away. It’s a mess.”
Kenzie whistled low. “That’s not a bike. That’s a cry for help.”
He laughed, the sound rich and real in the cavernous space. “Exactly. I’m its therapy.” He picked up a wrench from the bench, twirled it in his fingers. “So, you just admire, or do you actually get your hands dirty?”
“Are you offering?”
“I’m low on help. And you have a known history of competent intervention.” He held out the wrench. “Bottom bolt on that rear set. Needs to come off so I can replace the bushing. Just don’t strip it.”
She took the wrench. The metal was cool, the weight solid and purposeful. She knelt by the bike’s exposed rear frame, her cargo pants pressing into the grit of the floor. She found the bolt, fitted the wrench. Her first turn was careful, testing the resistance. It was tight, seized with age. She adjusted her grip, braced her other hand on the frame, and leaned into it, using the strength of her shoulder and back.
The bolt broke free with a low, rusty groan. She worked it off smoothly, her movements economical. She set the bolt and wrench neatly on the tarp.
When she looked up, he was watching her. Not her face, but her hands, her posture. There was no disguise in his expression now—just raw, open admiration. It wasn’t the look guys usually gave her, the one that slid over her hoodie and got stuck trying to figure out what was underneath. This was different. It saw the action, the capability.
“What?” she said, suddenly self-conscious.
“Nothing.” He shook his head, a faint smile playing on his lips. “Just. You’re full of surprises, Kenz.”
The nickname, the shortened version only her online friends used, landed softly. He hadn’t asked. He’d just known.
He busied himself, finding the new bushing, his back to her as he rummaged in a parts bin. The garage felt quieter, the space between them charged with all the unsaid things. The radio played a guitar solo that wailed and faded.
“I couldn’t draw yesterday,” she said. The words were out before she could cage them. She stood up, wiping her hands on her pants, leaving faint grey streaks.
He turned, the new bushing in his palm. “Yeah?”
“Every time I tried, it just… came out looking like engine parts. Or a jacket.” She swallowed, her throat tight. “I had to delete a perfect cylinder sketch. It was technically flawless. And it felt completely dead. Because all I was thinking about was how you looked standing by your bike in the rain, wondering if you were going to come back in.”
The admission hung in the oily air. Leo didn’t move. The casual lean was gone. He looked struck, as if she’d tapped him with a live wire.
“I wanted to come back in,” he said, his voice low. “I stood out there for ten minutes trying to think of a reason. I’ve never done that. I’ve never had to try to think of a reason to talk to someone.”
She took a step toward the workbench, just for something to do. Her finger traced a gouge in the wooden surface. “This is weird.”
“What is?”
“This. Me. Here. Talking like this. I don’t… I don’t do this.”
“What do you do?”
“I go to class. I design things. I talk to my guild. I stay in my lane.” She looked at him, her hazel eyes bright and uncertain. “You’re a whole other highway.”
He set the bushing down. He moved then, closing the distance between them, stopping just inside her space. The scent of him—leather, clean sweat, and that sharp, metallic garage smell—wrapped around her. “I haven’t been able to think about anything else since you caught that mug,” he said, the words tumbling out in a rush. “And I know that sounds like a line. It’s not. I screwed up a lathe program. I keep routing my bike past your department. My friends are making fun of me because I go quiet when my phone buzzes.”
She was breathing fast, her back against the rough edge of the workbench. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why me? I wear a tent. I’d rather fight a dragon than make small talk at a party. I’m not…” She gestured vaguely at herself, at the shapeless fabric hiding her body.
He understood. His head tilted. “You think this is about that?” He let out a breath, half laugh, half sigh. “Kenz. You caught a falling mug without looking. You called me out on a bullshit spill. You know what a torque wrench is for. You looked at my bike and you saw the work, not the accessory. You’re the most real person I’ve met in years.” He reached out, slow, giving her every chance to pull away. He didn’t touch her face. He touched her hand, his fingers sliding against hers, both of them streaked with garage grime. “The rest of it… I don’t care about the rest of it. I just want to know you.”
The last thread of her resistance snapped. It wasn’t a dramatic break. It was a quiet release, like a held breath finally let go. She turned her hand, linking her greasy fingers with his.
He leaned in then, and she met him halfway.
The kiss was nothing like she’d imagined. It wasn’t soft or cinematic. It was a slight misalignment of noses, the scratch of his stubble, the taste of the energy drink he’d been drinking. It was warm, and real, and a little awkward. Their joined hands, dirty and clenched between them, were a grounding anchor.
She laughed against his mouth, a puff of air that was pure, unfiltered relief.
He pulled back just an inch, his amber eyes searching hers. “What?”
“We’re filthy,” she said, her smile wide and genuine, showing teeth.
“Yeah,” he grinned, his thumb stroking the grease on her knuckle. “We are.”
He kissed her again, properly this time. Her free hand came up, gripping the front of his t-shirt, smearing a grey print over his heart. The bike, in pieces beside them, was forgotten. The distant radio played on. The world outside the garage, with its expectations and lanes and highways, ceased to exist. There was only this: the solid press of him, the shared, gritty reality of their hands, and the thrilling, terrifying sense of having finally swerved.
There was only this: the solid press of him, the shared, gritty reality of their hands, and the thrilling, terrifying sense of having finally swerved. Time dissolved into the simple mechanics of breath and touch. Her other hand came up, fingers sliding into his hair, which was surprisingly soft against the grease on her skin. He shifted, deepening the kiss, one arm wrapping firmly around her back to pull her closer against the workbench’s edge.
The world was a distant hum. The radio, the faint traffic, the occasional shout from another bay—all of it melted into a meaningless buzz. Her heart hammered a frantic, joyous rhythm against her ribs, a counterbeat to the steady, reassuring weight of him. She forgot about her hoodie, her self-consciousness, the countless reasons she usually built between herself and anyone new.
They kissed until the need for air became a physical demand. They parted slowly, breathing each other’s air. A shy, dazed smile bloomed on Kenzie’s face, wider and more real than any she’d felt in years.
“Kenz,” he whispered, the nickname a soft vibration between them. He brushed his thumb across her cheekbone, his touch reverent. It left a definite, dark smear of garage grease on her skin.
She didn’t flinch. She leaned into his hand, the gritty proof of the afternoon a mark she welcomed. Her hands found his waist, anchoring herself in the solid reality of him. They were both leaning in again, drawn like magnets, when a sharp, percussive knock shattered the quiet of their corner.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
It was on the main garage roll-up door, loud and impatient. They froze, their foreheads still touching.
“Reyes! You in there?” A man’s voice, rough and familiar, called from outside. “Your parts are here, and I ain’t got all day!”
Leo sighed, a burst of warm air against her lips. His eyes stayed closed for a second longer. “Danny,” he muttered. “My supplier. He’s early.”
“Early is rude,” Kenzie whispered, her voice husky. Her hands were still fisted in the fabric of his shirt.
“He’s always rude.” Leo pressed one last, quick kiss to her mouth, a promise. “Give me sixty seconds to murder him and hide the body.”
He stepped back, and the loss of his warmth made the garage feel ten degrees cooler. He ran a hand through his hair, making it stand up in chaotic tufts. Kenzie instinctively raised her own hand to her cheek, feeling the ridge of the grease smear. A laugh bubbled up in her throat, part giddy, part hysterical.
“I have… evidence,” she said, showing him her dirty fingers.
“So do I.” He looked down at the perfect grey handprint over his sternum. His grin was wide and stupidly happy. “Worth it.”
The knocking started again, more insistent. “Rev! C’mon, man!”
“I’m coming, you menace!” Leo shouted back, his voice effortlessly shifting into a tone of playful annoyance. He looked at Kenzie, a question in his eyes. “You wanna…?”
“I’ll stay,” she said quickly. The thought of facing a grinning stranger with swollen lips and grease on her face was too much. She ducked slightly, putting the bulk of the café racer’s frame between her and the door.
Leo nodded and walked toward the front, grabbing a remote off a cluttered shelf. He hit a button, and the ancient roll-up door began clattering upward with a racket that drowned out everything. Daylight flooded the front of the space.
“Finally! You deaf in here?” Danny, a burly man in oil-stained coveralls, stood with a cardboard box in his arms.
“Contemplating the universe. What’d you bring me?” Leo’s voice was easy, relaxed, as he stepped outside to meet him. Their conversation became a muffled exchange about gasket sizes and invoice discrepancies.
Kenzie stayed in the shadow of the bike, her mind racing. She touched her lips. They felt different. The taste of him—metal, caffeine, something uniquely Leo—still lingered. She looked at the greasy thumbprint on her cheek in the reflection of a polished chrome gauge cover on the workbench. A grin split her face, so wide it almost hurt.
She heard the roll-up door crash down again. Footsteps approached. Leo reappeared, carrying the box. He set it down with a thud.
“He’s gone.” He leaned against the workbench beside her, shoulder to shoulder. They both stared at the disassembled engine. “So. That happened.”
“It did.” She bumped his shoulder with hers. “Your friend has terrible timing.”
“The worst. I’m downgrading him to ‘acquaintance.’” He was quiet for a moment. “I, um. I don’t want this to be weird now. I don’t have a script for this part.”
“Good.” She looked up at him. “Scripts are boring. And I’m already covered in your project. Literally.”
He chuckled. “A marked woman. Listen.” He turned to face her, his expression turning uncharacteristically serious. “I have to actually put this bike back together. It’s my ride to work tomorrow. But after… can I see you? Not just in a garage. Maybe… food? That doesn’t involve vending machines?”
“Food sounds dangerously like a date, Reyes.”
“It’s terrifying,” he admitted, his eyes warm. “But the bike ride wasn’t a date, and the garage wasn’t a date. I think we’ve exhausted the non-date options.”
She pretended to consider it, tapping her greasy finger on her chin. “I have a guild raid at nine.”
“I’ll have you back by eight-thirty. Scout’s honor. Even if I have to teleport.”
“You’re not a scout.”
“Technicality.” He reached for her hand again, lacing his filthy fingers with hers. “Say yes.”
The word felt easy. Natural. “Yes.”
His relieved smile was better than the kiss. Almost. “Okay. Good. I’ll… text you? Wait, I already do that.” He scrunched his face. “I’ll text you with a time. And a place that isn’t here.”
“You’re overcomplicating it.” She pulled her phone from her pocket. It had a faint smudge on the case now, too. “Pick me up at my dorm at seven. I’ll be the one wearing clothes.”
“Not a beanie?”
“Don’t push your luck.”
He laughed, and she committed the sound to memory. She gathered her things, the mundane action feeling surreal. He walked her to the side door, the one they’d come in through. The afternoon sun was slanting, golden and heavy.
“Hey,” he said, catching her hand before she stepped out. He looked suddenly young, uncertain. “This was the best day I’ve had in this garage. Ever.”
Kenzie looked at their joined hands, at the interconnected smudges of work and possibility. “Same.” She stood on her toes and pressed a quick, clean kiss to his clean cheek. “See you at seven, biker boy.”
She walked out into the sunlight, the grease on her face like a battle stamp. She didn’t wipe it off. All the way back to campus, she could still feel the ghost of his hands on her waist, and the phantom growl of the engine that had first carried her to him. Her phone buzzed in her pocket just as she reached her dorm steps. It was a text from Marcus, her tank.
Marcus: Raid in 90. You better be focused. My hit points depend on it.
Kenzie typed back, a slow, sure smile on her face.
Kenzie: Don’t worry. My focus has never been better.